This Hollow World
by frankandgarland
Summary: One year before Katniss volunteered for Prim, another sacrificed himself to save his family. He expected that to be the end of everything for him. He was wrong.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is my first try at writing in a long time. I kept wanting to do a crossover fic with the Hunger Games, but I could never stick with a group of characters from another fandom. However, I really like the Teen Wolf characters in this universe and I'm happy with what I have planned. I think this part of the story, the 73****rd**** games, will probably be around five parts, maybe. But I will be skipping over the games. I will write the interview after the games, where the victor sees the highlights, but that's it on what happened in the arena (aside from flashbacks and nightmares). And I apologize for any mistakes. I usually get my sister to proofread my work, but she's said "later" every time I've asked her this week. I really hope that somebody reads this and likes it.**

**Feel free to review. I like hearing feedback. Constructive criticism is welcome. Enjoy.**

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That afternoon there had been nothing but rain. Not a sprinkle but a downpour. Big, fat drops fell from the sky, like the whole world had been thrown under a hose. There was no wind to careen the water in any direction but south. It collected it gutters and flooded streets. It slid down roofs and fell into apartments through holes in ceilings and cracks in windows. Of course, no one was there to patch the leaks. No one in the whole district was in their homes. They all had to make due with setting up their largest buckets or spare towels under the steady drips before they had to leave. But most of the residents didn't care. Any mold or wood damage that occurred as a result of the downpour couldn't be much worse than whatever gross infestation already existed there. And honestly, there were much bigger problems to worry about that day. Much bigger.

The reason no one was in their homes was because their presence was required somewhere else. It was mandatory for every citizen in District 8 to be in the square at eleven thirty that morning. It was currently eleven twenty-seven. Children mainly stood in the square, their ages ranged from twelve to eighteen, with each age roped off in sections (oldest in front). A few hundred people stood in their own separate sections behind and to the side of them, mostly concerned family members. And everyone else was connected with the crowd through adjoining streets and alleyways, being forced to watch what was about to happen on giant waterproof screens that were mounted on the sides of buildings.

The people, unfortunately, were obviously not waterproof. So they wore as many layers as possible to stay dry. Only one awning had been set up. It was located in the front of the square, covering an entire stage that had been constructed for this only yesterday.

Five people were exempt from getting wet. The mayor of the district, Deaton, a bald man with dark skin who was somewhere in his mid-forties. The woman from the Capitol, the escort who would be taking two children from the district back with her when she left; her tomato red wig cascading down her back in giant waves. And District 8's past victors. Of the total four, only three remained. And no one ever talked about what happened to the other one.

Two more people would soon join these five. But, unlike these, they'd be soaked to the bone.

Eleven twenty-eight. And of the thousands of anxious children herded to the center of the town, one was, if possible, slightly more anxious than all the rest.

Every kid in the square was looking at a friend or holding a friend's hand or silently hoping their friends weren't going to be picked or hoping they themselves weren't going to be picked. Except for this one boy. He couldn't _find_ his friend.

Every year for the past five years he had walked to the square on May 8th with his father, his best friend, and his friend's mother. It wasn't something they had made a point to always do, it was just something they'd done every year because they wanted to. Because it might be the last time they ever did. But this year the boy had walked to the square with only his father. And it wasn't until he reached the other seventeen year olds that he realized just how different the walk had felt. It was like half of his family had been missing.

"_You go ahead with your dad, I'll catch up. I just have to help my mom with something before we leave."_

It had seemed like a normal statement and the boy didn't think anything of it while it was being said to him. But now he'd been standing there for twenty minutes and his friend still hadn't shown.

_Where is he?_ He thought, horrible ideas creeping into his head about where he could be, what could have happened.

_He's dead. He tried to hide with his mom and the Peacekeepers came by for final searches and found them. They shot her on sight and are waiting for the reaping. If he's not picked, then they'll kill him too._

That seemed to the boy like the most likely scenario. He kept looking though. The rain falling in his eyes, making everything blurry and indistinguishable. The only thing he could clearly identify from a distance was the escort's cherry wig.

He craned his head around to look at the clock tower behind him. It was the tallest structure in District 8. It served to let everyone know what time it was, so no one was late for their shift at the factories. Punctuality was a necessity in 8.

Eleven twenty-nine. It read.

He sighed in frustration and fear, desperate for his friend to show.

"Scott, I swear," he mumbled to himself, still looking at the clock, "if you're not here in two seconds, I'll-"

"You'll what?"

An out of breath voice asked right behind him- or in front of him since it was just his head that was backwards. The boy jumped, letting out a small yell and causing a few heads to turn in their direction. Luckily, the rain muffled it for anyone far away. He whipped his head around and stared daggers at his friend, furious at him for scaring him, angry at his being late, and also immensely relieved that he'd finally shown.

Scott broke into an open mouth grin at the boy's reaction. He hadn't tried to scare him. But he was really glad he did.

"Where the hell have you been?" the boy asked.

"My mom's been sick all week, I was helping her layer up because of the rain." He told him as he tossed his already soaked hood back over his head.

"Really? _That_ took _this_ long?"

"Well, by the time we left, the crowd had already formed. The lines at the sign in were really long and they started pushing people towards the side streets. Mom's on one of those now. I had to run to make it here and see that look on your face." He grinned again but his friend wasn't having it.

"Don't do that again." He said, "I thought you'd both tried to hide and they'd found and shot you or something."

"Seriously?" he said with a lift of an eyebrow. "Dude, they don't shoot you for hiding during the reaping."

"Oh yeah, how could I forget? They just throw your ass in prison!"

"Calm down, man." He was ignored.

"No, wait. They'd throw your mom in prison. They'd send _you_ to the community home."

"Stiles, quit hanging onto this." He laughed. "I'm here, okay. Quit worrying."

A girl next to them gave Scott an icy glance. Like it was a sin he could even think about smiling on such a day.

Stiles noticed it too.

"Wipe that look off your face. No joy is allowed today."

They both straightened and turned their attention back to the stage just at the clock read eleven thirty.

The mayor rose from his chair and walked to the microphone. He then began the decades old speech that was recited every year. Altogether, reapings usually took about twenty-five minutes and the speech was a good fifteen.

Silence was expected during reapings, but Scott and Stiles hadn't abided by that rule for five years. So why start? Besides, Stiles wasn't finished.

"Next year," he grumbled in a whisper. "We are walking together. All four of us."

"Yeah, of course." Scott agreed. "It'll be our last year. And we'll walk home together and throw a freakin' party afterwards. Just the four of us."

Stiles could feel the weight Scott's last statement held. And he knew what it really meant.

"_My dad's _not_ allowed."_

Stiles knew better than anyone the problems Scott had with his father. And, being a genuine friend, he tried to despise Scott's dad just as much as Scott did.

Scott's father didn't live with him or Scott's mother, Melissa. He wasn't allowed to. Because despite the fact that Peacekeepers constantly had relations with citizens, there was an unspoken rule that they could not marry or live with them. When McCall found out he'd gotten Melissa pregnant, he asked to be transferred back to District 2 where he stayed for a few months. He eventually came back for the birth, but Melissa said she didn't want him around. Scott said they must have had an intense fight because whatever his mom said to him, it kept him in 2 for seven years. Then he came back once every few years on Scott's birthday with some fancy gift that Melissa and Scott immediately sold once he'd left. But, when Scott turned fifteen, he came back to stay. He didn't hang around the two of them a lot. But he did get a good job set up for Scott, working in the Mayor's office. Scott would have loved to say he was too proud to take it. He would have _loved_ to. But he and his mom weren't doing so great financially, so. Scott knew part of the reason his dad got him the job was so they'd be in the same building most of the time. But Scott put effort into avoiding him like the plague. That was where they currently stood.

"Let's just get through this year first." Stiles said, trying to get Scott's attention off of his father.

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right." Scott agreed, his anger retreating. He wanted to change the subject too. But, at that moment, lighter topics weren't really filling his head. "Is your name in eighteen times?" he asked.

"Yeah. You?"

"Same."

However many years you've been in the reaping pool is how many times your name goes in. But, for a year supply of grain and oil for one person, you can add your name in as many times as there are members in your family with each existing vote. Your official family, as in who you live with. Since Stiles and Scott only lived with one other family member, they both had their name in eighteen times.

When they were thirteen, Scott and Stiles suggested to their parents that they get married, making their family larger so the two of them could put their names in more times. The idea was laughed at in the moment, promised to be thought about for the boys' sake, actually contemplated for a few years, then disregarded. Their eligibility was almost up now anyway.

The crowd's silence eventually enveloped the two boys. They remained quiet as Deaton continued with the speech. He just started in on the Dark Days and was droning about the ill-fated uprisings in the thirteen districts, his voice amplified by the speakers placed all around the square, overlapping the steady drum of the rain.

A small prick of a thought entered Stiles' mind. It wasn't the same thought that was in every other kid's mind at the moment. _What if it's me? Don't let it be me._ That thought eventually overtook him every year. But, for some reason, this year, it was a different idea. And a thousand times stronger.

_What if it's Scott?_

They'd talked about this before. Of course they had. Every person in Panem had had this talk with someone; what to do at the reaping if someone you love is picked. He and Scott even had a pact. No volunteering. If one of them got picked, that was it. That was how it had to play out. Physically, Scott was a little bit better off than Stiles. He was stronger, faster. He, on several occasions, had tried to convince Stiles he could maybe win a games. It was his way of trying to convince Stiles that it'd be better if Scott volunteered for him. But Stiles just laughed and brushed it off, wanting to avoid the topic altogether. But he knew that when it really came down to it Scott would volunteer for him in a heartbeat. But Stiles could never let that happen.

In his mind, the world needed Scott much more than it needed Stiles. Their parents needed Scott more than Stiles. Scott was there for everybody. He was so loyal it physically hurt. Stiles knew that if he died, Scott and Melissa would take care of his dad. Scott would continue to work at the mayor's office, then pick up shifts at the factories. Scott wouldn't let anybody down. He'd push himself and pull everybody through. Scott would get over Stiles' death because he had to. But Stiles, if Scott died, didn't know how he could make it without his best friend. Stiles didn't think he would _be_ anything without Scott. But he knew that he could protect him. If his name was called.

So, that thought that was running through all the heads around him now ran through Stiles' mind as well.

_Don't let it be me. Please don't let it be me. If it has to be one of us, let it be Scott. And I'll volunteer._

_I'll volunteer for him._

"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks."

Deaton's speech was over. He began reading the list of District 8's past victors.

Stiles felt his chest tighten at the first name and Scott placed a hand on his shoulder. Then Stiles blinked away the rain from his eyes and the feeling evaporated by the time Deaton spoke the last name.

"And now I introduce District 8's new escort."

Stiles leaned over and whispered to Scott, "What happened to Jennifer Blake?"

"I heard some girls at school talking about it." Scott told him. "Apparently she's been upgraded to District 2."

"Ah, a dream come true." Stiles smirked. He looked at the new escort rising from her chair on one of the screens near him.

She was teetering on heels the same color as her wig and wearing a suit that was the starkest white Stiles had ever seen. He peered around the heads in front of him to catch a glimpse of her on stage. She was practically glowing compared to the grey wash that the rain gave everything else around her.

"What do you think of this one?" Scott asked.

"The same thing I think of everyone from the Capitol." Stiles deadpanned.

"What do you think she thinks of us?"

Stiles thought for a second. "'At least I'm not in District 12.'" He spoke in a high voice, attempting the Capitol's ridiculous accent.

Scott chuckled at the horrible impression.

"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" she said the lines in the exact way Jennifer Blake did every year. The same way all the escorts did.

She was smiling, but it was strained, Stiles observed. It flickered in the corners like she was uncomfortable, sad. And he briefly wondered why she was there, since she didn't seem to be up to the high, peppy standards of the usual Capitol escorts.

"Ladies first! As always!" she tweeted like a trained bird.

She crossed to the glass ball on the left. Not wasting any time, she plucked a slip off the top and was back at the microphone.

Scott and Stiles didn't really have any friends who were girls that they felt they should worry about. But they still held their breath as the faux redhead unfolded the paper.

She called out in a clear voice, making sure to be heard in the back, even over the rain. "Meredith Walker!"

A sharp wail pierced the air. It ripped through the silence like tissue paper, sounding from the section in front of the two boys.

Meredith Walker. Stiles thought about where he knew her from. But she wasn't too hard to place. She was one year older than him and Scott. They had always gone to school with her. When they were thirteen there was an accident in one of the factories. A large piece of machinery malfunctioned and it caused a minor explosion. Several people were killed. Including Meredith's father. Her mother had died giving birth to her. Stiles remembered her as being usually quiet, keeping to herself. She made good grades, had a few friends. But after losing both her parents, she was never the same. They carted her off to the community home, which didn't help. People quit talking to her. She spent every day mumbling to herself in corners, ignoring the world. Now that it was her last year of school, no one knew where she was going to go. Once the kids in the home finished school, they were kicked out. And she hadn't been able to set foot near a factory or mill since her dad died. She'd probably end up living on the streets.

Well, not anymore. Now she was going to die before she turned nineteen.

A few people in front of Scott and Stiles started moving, creating a small space. The cameras landed on her. The two boys looked at the screens. She had collapsed in a pathetic heap on the wet pavement, no one reaching out to help her. She hadn't fainted. They could see her open eyes on the monitors and her lips were moving frantically, mumbling something only she could hear. Three Peacekeepers surged forward. The eighteen year olds parted swiftly for them. They grabbed the poor girl and gruffly pulled her to her feet. She was sobbing uncontrollably, her face twisted with devastation as they half guided, half dragged her to the stage.

They pushed her up the stairs and then she was on her own. She bowled forward and Stiles was sure she'd meet the ground with a thud. But at the last second, the escort was there, helping her regain her balance.

The escort offered the girl a sympathetic smile. And Meredith managed to walk to the right position on the stage, still sobbing, by herself.

Stiles was shocked that the woman didn't look down in disgust at the soaked patches Meredith had put on her pristine outfit. He watched her move in her once white suit, now spotted with grey, to the glass bowl filled with boys' names and his heart began to beat faster. Once again, she grabbed the nearest slip and proceeded back to the microphone.

"The male tribute from District 8 is…"

Stiles expected things to slow down. He thought that was what happened in a moment of sheer panic. The universe took pity on you and gave you a little extra time to deal with what was happening. But the universe had never seemed too fond of Stiles. So he tried to will the world to slow down, just to give him a few more seconds. But in the blink of an eye, she unfolded the paper and prepared to call out a name. The escort opened her mouth and then immediately closed it again. Her brows furrowed, forming a crease and Stiles knew. He knew that only one name could cause such confusion.

The woman on stage just decided to wing it. The only definable letters that came out of her mouth were a 'g,' an 'n,' and an 'm,' all surrounded by various vowel sounds. But she spoke the last name clearly and without hesitation.

"Stilinski."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: FINALLY! I am so so so so so so soooooo sorry about the long wait. I wish I could say that this won't become a regular thing but honestly, I don't know. I still want people to keep reading and responding to this story, though. I like how this chapter turned out, and I hope it doesn't seem to repetitive in all of Stiles' goodbyes (especially from all the "I love yous"). I don't know what more to say about this chapter except that I hope you enjoy it! And again, **_**super**_** sorry for the long ass wait.**

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Stiles' jaw clenched. His eyes widened with terror. He turned to his best friend and found Scott looking at him with the same expression. Except there was something else in Scott's eyes, something beyond the terror. _Determination_. Stiles knew that as soon as he stood on that stage and they called for volunteers, Scott would come running up. So, Stiles resolved to be more determined than Scott in who was going to the Capitol. He had to save his best friend. He had to save their little makeshift family. Scott wasn't the only one who had to be a hero.

Stiles had to prevent him from volunteering. So he did the only thing he could think of to stop him. And it wasn't very heroic. He pulled back his fist, and before Scott knew what he was doing, Stiles' fist collided with the left side of Scott's face. He hit him harder than he'd ever hit anything in his life. He punched like his life depended on it. Well, like Scott's life depended on it.

Scott fell to the ground in a heap, out cold. The seventeen year olds around them all gasped. They stared either at Scott in worry or at Stiles in shock. They backed away from them both. Stiles quickly lowered his fist. He knew that with the movement happening around him, the cameras would soon find him. He didn't want Melissa or his dad to see Scott lying there next to him, so he walked quickly out of his section.

He practically jogged down the path to the stage and up the stairs. He just had to hurry. He didn't know when Scott would wake up. His feet pounded the pavement, creating giant splashes in every puddle he stomped in. The wooden stairs creaked and groaned under his weight. And when he finally joined the others under the awning, the escort gave him the same smile she'd given Meredith. He didn't return it. Then she looked down at his hand. His knuckles smeared with blood. And her face fell, the smiled dropped from her face and crashed to the floor like an overturned glass. She gave him a sharp gesture to her right, and he abided, then she turned back to the microphone.

"Do we have any volunteers for these two?" she called, a fake smile replacing the one she lost.

The next few seconds that passed seemed to drag on for an eternity in Stiles' mind. He bit his lips and tapped his foot so fervently that he caused the escort to take notice.

_Come on, come on, come on._ He muttered in his head. _Hurry up._

Finally, she spoke. "Well…" she made another gesture towards the mayor and retreated from the microphone. Deaton stood and went to it.

Before he began the Treaty of Treason, he gave Stiles a sympathetic look. Stiles figured he remembered him. Scott and the mayor were kind of close, and Stiles had sometimes hung around in the building if Scott was doing late work and he'd introduce them. He'd only talked to the man a handful of times and their usual exchanges were comprised of "Hello sirs" and "Goodnight sirs." But still, it was nice to know that someone outside of his family and friends cared that he, Stiles Stilinski, was going to die. Not just that he, the boy from 8, was going to die.

As Deaton went on, Stiles began searching for those few he cared about. He tried to find his dad first, he knew he would be crushed. But his father was too far away to see. He thought about Melissa, but Scott said she was in one of the side streets, he wouldn't be able to see her either. So he looked for Scott. It wasn't hard to find him. In the midst of all the grey and blue and steel there was a streak of red. His best friend kept his head down and, for a terrifying moment, Stiles thought he was too angry to even look at him. Even though his head hung low, Stiles could see the blood running down his face, gently getting washed away in the rain.

_Please, please don't hate me Scott._ Stiles tried to make Scott understand him, knowing that he couldn't hear him at all. If he had just raised his head and looked at him, Stiles would have felt a lot better.

Minutes later, Deaton finished reading the treaty. He took a step back and Stiles faced Meredith. He guessed that she hadn't realized the mayor had finished. Her eyes flitted in his direction and she quickly faced her district partner. Her eyes still glazed over, her bottom lip still trembling. They took a step forward and shook each other's hand. Meredith's was as lifeless as a corpse.

Mindlessly, they turned back to the crowd as the anthem began. Once it ended, the two were escorted into the Justice Building by a team of Peacekeepers. They passed through doorways and hallways that seemed to stretch on forever. Stiles had been in here dozens of times, he tried to figure out which way they were being led. He tried to focus on something besides his imminent death. But it proved impossible at that moment.

Finally, the Peacekeepers stopped, so abruptly that Stiles and Meredith had to skid to a halt, fearing they'd run into one. Two doors stood directly across from one another on each side of the corridor. Meredith was shoved, lightly but still shoved, into the one on the left and Stiles into the one on the right. Roughly twenty minutes were allotted for goodbyes to the tributes and divided by the number of guests to figure out how long each visitor got.

Stiles was too nervous to sit down. He paced around the room, waiting for his first guest. Stiles knew that the only people coming were his dad, Melissa, and Scott. Or at least he hoped Scott would show up. He _needed_ Scott to show up. He had to apologize and explain himself and make Scott understand why he had to do that. Stiles didn't think he could live with himself if Scott didn't say goodbye to him. The only good news if that did happen was that he wouldn't live for long.

Stiles' hands were shaking in anticipation of everything that was going to come. He raised them level with his chest and saw that the knuckles on his right hand were raw and red. He panicked. He couldn't stand looking at the color on the back of his hand. He tried to wipe it off with his left hand, but it just smeared and hurt. He began rubbing it off on his shirt, then realized that blood on his clothes was not something he wanted the cameras to see. He looked around the room; there was a box of tissues on the coffee table in the center of the room. He went to it, pulled out three or four, and furiously scrubbed his skin sore.

The door started to open, no knock came as a warning. Stiles quickly balled up the tissues and stuffed them into the pocket of his damp hoodie. He saw the white clad arm of a Peacekeeper push open the door and his dad walked through. They looked each other in the eye and stayed separated for a split second before they both sprinted across the room into each other's arms.

For a while they just stayed like that. His dad with one hand on Stiles' back and one on his head. Stiles with his face pressed into his dad's neck. He inhaled, his brow creased with sadness. They were both crying.

"I'm sorry, son." His dad whispered to him between sobs. "I'm so sorry."

Stiles tried to say he was sorry too, but the words were muffled in the fabric of his father's wet shirt. So they stood like that in silence for a few more moments. Then they broke apart and went to sit on one of the couches together. Since this was likely Stiles' last moment with his father, he wanted to say something, everything, that would make up for anything he'd ever done. But he couldn't think of a single word. He looked at his dad's face and knew that he had something he wanted to say.

"Dad, what is it?" he asked.

He sighed. "I just… I knew this would happen." He paused, careful not to look at his son. "Your mother knew this would happen."

"Dad, it's okay." Stiles said, placing a tender hand on his shoulder. "I always knew too, on some level. And I don't care. It's happened. And there's nothing we can do about it."

"But-" he was struggling with how to ask his next question. "But why didn't Scott volunteer?"

Stiles decided to tell his dad why his best friend didn't volunteer. This was going to be his last time talking to his dad. He didn't want to be anything other than completely honest with him.

"Because, Dad... I- I hit Scott when they called my name."

"What?" he asked incredulously, whipping his head towards his son.

"Yeah…" he breathed. "I knew he was gonna volunteer, so I hit him. Knocked him out."

"Why in the world would you do a thing like that?"

"Because I knew he would volunteer. And, Dad, I couldn't let him. It was a choice between me or Scott dying, it had to be me."

"Why do you think that?"

"Dad…" Stiles had to make sure his father understood him. He had to get this point across. If his dad didn't understand anything that came out of his mouth, he _had_ to get this one thing. "Scott can take better care of you and his mom more than I ever could." His father tried to protest, but Stiles kept on. "His dad gave him that good job with the mayor, he's fit to pick up extra shifts at the factories, and…" Stiles struggled over the last part. He had been thinking this his entire life, and he didn't know if he would ever be able to voice it out loud. But, again, he had to. "Scott, he's just… he's just a better person than I am." The look on his father's face was one of complete disbelief. "I could never be…" Stiles tried to find the right word. "_good_ like he is…" It still wasn't enough. But, Stiles thought, no words would ever be able to describe Scott and do justice to how great he was. "But I can do this. I can save him and let him save you guys. I can- I can _die_, if it means that you'll be taken care of."

His dad said nothing for several seconds. His face remained neutral, staring at a spot on the table, the rug, anywhere but his son. For a split second, Stiles was scared that his dad was angry at him, that at any moment he'd jump up and start yelling at him for being so stupid. But he came to his senses. His dad loved him. And would never yell at him in a moment like this. Slowly, his father turned to look at him, his brows furrowed, and took a good look at his son before speaking.

"Son," he spoke calmly, and Stiles immediately felt the need to straighten up. He'd never heard his father sound so serious, except maybe when he was telling Stiles how much his mother had loved him. "You'd die for Scott," he said, and Stiles couldn't help thinking, _I _am_ going to die for Scott_. "And Scott would die for you. And, because of that, you two are the best men I've ever known."

Stiles didn't know how to respond. His father had never called him a man before. Never. This was the biggest compliment or praise that had ever been given to him. He couldn't think of anything to say that would express his gratitude, his admiration for his father, or his longing to prove what his father thought of him. And all he really wanted to do in that moment was hug his father. He wanted to wrap his arms around and hold on tight to the man who had raised him and made him into a person who could chose to die for his family. So he did. And he never wanted to let go.

"But-" his father said in his ear, desperately trying to keep sobs at bay. "But I don't want you to die. I want you to come home." He pulled back and held his son at arms' length, looking right in Stiles' eyes. "I want you to fight, Stiles." Although a few tears had already betrayed him, his voice was forceful. And, if Stiles' was being honest with himself, it scared him. Not just the tone of his father's voice, but what he was asking of him. "Will you fight? …Will you _try_?"

Stiles was silent, stunned. He couldn't respond, even though he knew that all his dad wanted was a yes. His dad just sat there, staring expectantly for his son to answer.

Stiles tried. "I… I-"

The two looked over as the door creaked with movement. A Peacekeeper entered and told them their time was up.

His dad turned back to him, frantic about his final words to his son. "Promise me that you won't just accept what's happening to you, Stiles. Promise me that you'll fight it!"

The guard must have been able to tell that Stiles' father wasn't going to go quickly and quietly, so he called down the hall for someone.

The footsteps of more guards thundered down the hall and Stiles knew that his last seconds with his father were ticking away. His dad looked at him, all he wanted was two words. Two words, and then he'd be content. So, Stiles complied.

Even though he wasn't telling to truth in the moment, he told his dad the two words he needed to hear, "I promise." And they were empty in his mouth.

The next few seconds were chaos. All Stiles could see was a blur of dark blue and white as his dad was taken away from him. All he could feel was his father's hand's pried away from his arms and a Peacekeeper's gloved hand on his chest, shoving him back. And all he could hear was his father shouting, "I love you, son!" and the door slamming shut as Stiles himself called out, "I love you, Dad!"

He stood there in the empty room, with his empty promise hanging above him. The air thick with loneliness. Fortunately, he was only alone for a few more seconds, then the door opened and Melissa entered with a fierce look in her eyes.

Stiles scrambled to come up with an apology for hitting her son, but he couldn't make one come out as he saw her charging forward. And her purpose looked like it was to strike him across the face.

He was caught off guard, however, when she said "Come here" in a motherly voice and wrapped her arms around him.

For a split second his arms remained frozen, held away from his body. Then Stiles felt something twinge in his heart and he knew that he was losing his mother for a second time. Melissa was his mother. A second mother, a stand-in mother, but a mother none the less. And it tore a hole in his heart to think about never seeing her again.

She pulled back with urgency and grabbed his arms, holding him apart from her with force. _Now she's going to hit me,_ he thought. And he was right. She let go of him with her right hand, pulled it back, and brought her fist upon his shoulder. He accepted it without flinching. Without even muttering an 'ow.'

"That's for knocking out Scott." She said, pointing a finger at his nose, making him go cross-eyed trying to follow it.

"I know, I'm sorry. I-"

"Stiles, be quiet." She spoke with purpose, having come in there to say what was needed, what couldn't go unsaid. "I know why you did it and I'm not mad at you. It doesn't matter. Stiles, I love you." She told him, unblinking. And he too found himself unable to look away from her.

"I love you too, Melissa." She let him say it, knowing that he wouldn't let her leave until he did.

"You have always been a son to me." She said, tears threatening to well up, but she wouldn't let them. "And nothing else matters. I don't have any advice or stories or questions for you. I just can't let you go without telling you one more time that I love you. I love you, Stiles." She repeated, punctuated with a hug, then released him. "I'm going to leave now. I want you to have the rest of your time to talk with Scott."

"He's out there?" he asked, eyes wide, heart swelling with hope.

"Of course he is." She said and headed for the door. But something crossed his mind.

"Melissa," he called as she reached for the handle. She turned back and looked at him. "Could you go and say something to Meredith? I just don't think she has… anyone."

She gave him a small, sad smile. "Sure." And she opened the door. "I love you." She repeated for a final time.

"I love you." He echoed. And the door shut.

He stood in the center of the room, staring at the brass handle on the door. Impatiently waiting for it to turn. Scott was coming. Scott was still his best friend. The seconds ticked away, feeling like hours. Until, finally…

The knob turned and the door creaked open, little by little, until a space wide enough for a person to fit through was available, and Scott slid in. An unseen hand closed the door and Scott didn't seem interested in coming any closer towards Stiles. He remained standing a few feet from the door, his eyes glued to the floor or his shoes or anything that must have appeared more interesting than Stiles.

Stiles didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to begin his last meeting with his best friend- brother. And Scott didn't look any closer to words than Stiles felt.

But they had to say something, otherwise, they would stay frozen while time moved around them and then Scott would be told to leave and Stiles would be on the train to the Capitol.

"I didn't hurt you too bad, did I?" Stiles asked, ashamed. The blood on Scott's face was gone, he'd probably wiped it off so their parents wouldn't see, but a welt was already forming just below his eye.

"That depends," Scott said, his voice coarse, "Are you talking about my face, or the fact that you're going into the games?"

Stiles exhaled a hurt sigh. "Scott, are you mad at me?"

"No." he admitted reluctantly, although he didn't know why he felt hesitant.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Then why won't you look at me?"

"Because-" Scott stopped. He didn't want to tell his best friend this. He didn't want to admit that he was being a terrible friend, or that he thought Stiles was being a terrible friend too.

"Because why?" Stiles asked, truly wanting to know what how he was making Scott feel and how he could try to fix it. "What is it, Scott?"

"…because," he began, finally looking at Stiles, but careful to avoid his eyes, still fearing judgment. "I wanted you to _think_ that I'm mad at you… to make you feel guilty."

A silent moment passed between them. Stiles didn't know how to process what Scott had just said. It was so unlike Scott to want anyone to feel any kind of negative emotion, no matter what they'd done. He couldn't believe that he'd just admitted that.

All he could manage was a soft, "What?"

Scott licked his lips out of nervousness. "I wanted you to feel guilty for not letting me volunteer." He said.

"Why?" Stiles asked.

"Because it- seeing you standing on that stage, it just… I felt you didn't care."

Stiles' brow furrowed. He stepped toward Scott, ready to tell him how wrong he was. "I _do_ care, Scott. I'm doing this _because_ I care. I couldn't let you go into the games. I care about you and your mom and my dad. And I-"

"_No_." Scott said, with enough force to stop Stiles from taking another step. And then Scott finally looked Stiles in the eye. And he told him what he knew Stiles should hear, what he had to hear before he left. "I felt you didn't care about _yourself_. I feel like you didn't want me to go into the games in your place because you think that you're less than you are. It just seems like you don't care whether you die or not. Like you think you're not important."

Stiles was left speechless. It was a shock to hear this presented so clearly from Scott. Did Stiles really think he wasn't important? He never really saw himself as anything special, but he knew that his death wouldn't leave people unaffected. But he knew that they'd be able to get over it. They'd push on. Stiles' death wouldn't be the end of the world, and the ones who loved him would realize that sooner or later.

"But… I'm not." Stiles whispered.

"How can you say that?" Scott asked, completely bewildered.

"Because it's the truth, Scott!" Stiles yelled. He didn't want to, not there, not then. But he just felt so exasperated, and he let it get the better of him. "I know it sounds bad, but the truth is that in forty years you're not going to remember your friend from high school that died in the games when you were seventeen."

"Yes, I will." Scott said forcefully.

"No! No you won't!" Stiles waved his arms as he shouted. He felt like he was being driven mad, trying to reason with Scott. "And it won't be your fault. It's just a fact of life that you'll have to move on. Because as soon as you're out of school, you're going to go full days at the factories. You're going to work late nights with Deaton. You're going to provide money for your mom and my dad. And one day…" his voice failed him. "One day, you're going to start a family. And you'll work _so_ hard for them, trying to make sure they're happy and safe. Scott, the truth is, you won't have time to remember me. And, I'm telling you, that is _okay_. It won't be your fault; it's just what time is gonna force you to do. And I _won't_ blame you. I know it's important for you to feel like you never gave up on anybody, even if they're dead, but you're gonna have to."

The two boys stood in silence. Stiles felt like he'd said everything he needed to. But he could see that Scott hadn't. Scott was stubborn, and Stiles knew that he couldn't change Scott's opinion on this right now. But he truly believed that Scott would eventually forget about him. And Stiles was just as stubborn as Scott. He knew that no matter what Scott was fixing to say to him, Stiles' opinion of himself wouldn't change. He knew he'd fade away in Scott's mind. In ten years or twenty, there'd be no one left to remember him. And that was just fine with him.

"I won't, Stiles." Scott said. "I know that life is gonna make me move on, I know who I have to support, but I am _never_ going to forget my _best friend_ who chose to die for me when we were seventeen. Especially, if he thinks I _am_ going to forget him."

"I see, so this is just to prove me wrong." Stiles said.

"Well, since your opinion of yourself is so incredibly, ridiculously _false_, yeah, it's part of it."

Stiles sighed, "You always have to win, don't you Scott."

"When it comes to saving my friends."

"You're not saving me now, Scott. I'm going to die."

"Maybe. You never know." Scott shrugged.

"Come on, you don't seriously think I stand a chance."

"I think anything's possible, Stiles. The games are unpredictable." Scott said. "They're meant to be. Otherwise, where's the fun?" he said grimly.

"Yeah, I guess." Stiles mumbled without faith.

"And as for saving you-" Scott began.

"Which I told you, you can't."

"Your life, maybe not. But I swear to you," Scott said, looking in Stiles' eyes. "I'm going to save your memory."

They both stood there silently. Sizing each other up, maybe. Waiting for the other to say something that contradicted how they felt about Stiles' fate. Stiles took a breath and looked like he was ready to say something, when the door opened and a standard Peacekeeper announced that it was time for Stiles' final visitor to leave.

Scott walked over to Stiles and they wrapped their arms around each other.

"I love you." Scott said in Stiles' ear.

"I love you too." Stiles repeated for what seemed like the millionth time that day.

They let go of one another and Scott began backing toward the door. "I'm keeping my promise." He told Stiles.

"It's fine if you don't." was all Stiles could say.

And as the door closed, separating him from his family and his former life, a feeling in Stiles' heart made him realize something. That although he believed Scott would eventually forget about him, he had the smallest hope that he was wrong.


End file.
